This letter was found in a cottage in a state of disarray on the edge of Ragne. The writer was vacant from the property when searched. "Mother, You told me the old stories were meant to keep little children from wandering too far into Blackwood Grove in winter. I believed you back then. But I saw it last night, by the graves beyond the silver birches. The frost had already taken the stones, turning the names dull and unreadable. I tried to brush it away, but my fingers burned

I wasn’t going to say anything, because I don’t want people thinking I’m drunk or grieving or soft in the head. But the ice is wrong. It crept up the alley behind the tannery last night. It did not happen overnight, as I watched it do it. It slid along the stones like creeping breath across a mirror. No sound. No wind. Just there, and then stretching further yet, as if reaching to snuff out the warmth from the fire. I thought I saw someone standing at the end of the lane. Tal

To whoever tends this shrine next, I leave this as record, do not put your faith in the old prayers. For three mornings now the grey frost has returned to the low fields before dawn. It does not sparkle. It lies flat, like ash pressed into the grass. Where it settles, the soil hardens and cracks as if drained of warmth entirely, though no true cold follows. The kilmei refused to cross it. Even when driven, they balked and cried until pulled away. One knelt frozen to place, st

A journal page was found caught by the wind, it had clearly been torn cleanly down the spine. Elegant, but shaky handwriting denotes the following message. "I thought the stories were just nerves about the season turning, or perhaps fear of famine that often returns this time of year. Then last night, when the mists rolled in just off the ridge, the frost on my window moved. It had not melted. Not fading. No. Moved. Patterns shifting like breath on glass, forming a shape I al

A note was found frozen to a gatepost, written in a hurried, cramped hand that had clearly been trembling. "The frost came early this year. Not the clean white kind, but the dark grey kind. The kind that clings in oppressive sheets instead of flakes. I thought it was just the cold settling in wrong, but then I saw it. Shapes. Not footprints. Not animal tracks. Just indentations. Like something leaned its full weight into the frozen earth and slid itself forward wthout lifting

We were fortunate to find a few chatty Ceth amongst the bunch, but as Human writers venturing the Ceth territories, we certainly felt an air of unease.

It is deep in these catacombs that our second story is told by a Potoo Sirin by the name of Jebediah.

The edges of the parchment is weathered, and the handwriting of the page is tidy but rushed. Found in Ragne. "Late Autumn, just before the First Frost I camped near the edge of Blackwood Grove tonight, foolish as that may sound now. The leaves here cling to their branches longer than they should. Vibrantly green one day, then suddenly glassy and brittle the next. A frost had begun to form. The locals warned me of the "Crooked Branch,” but spoke in circles as if they fear nam

It would be recorded that during these clashes between tribes, warriors were free to “Unleash the Beast,” leading to quick and often blood..

Lycanthropes, or werewolves as they are often referred to, are horrendous creatures with the power to fool you! They could be your friend, your neighbor, or even little Timmy down the road!

Found near Ragne, soiled with dark mud. "Don’t camp near the Blackwood after dark. I mean it, not even a mile from the path is far...

"Lost: Three crates of dyes, bound for the Arcveltian capital of New Ashen. Each box is painted with the mark of a blue outstretched...

The page was filed in haste, with the ink of the penmanship uneven. “Three days past, I led the caravan along the southern bend toward...

Word drifts across the planks like smoke, heavy enough to choke. A mercenary fleet from New Ashen, some say, tired of Delair’s plundering reach. Others swear it is no kingdom’s banner, but something darker, older, a foe that no man nor ship can truly stand against. In truth, I cannot yet discern which tale is the better lie.

"To whomever reads this, They weren’t empty words. I saw it myself. The mists do not cling as they once did in the Blackwood Grove. From...

They met in the ruins of the Starlight Temple, where no prayers are spoken anymore. Lilima was a priestess, her bloodline bound to the...

There is a rule in Driftwood Inn, spoken quietly and never questioned. "Do not remove the mask." Once a year, on the cusp of autumn and on the eve of the first frost, an unusual patron arrives before the tavern doors have even been creaked open. No one sees them enter when they come. No one ever quite remembers the spot in which they sat the year before.

The Weeping Hollow has long been empty- just fog, half buried stones, and the lingering echo of dreams never come to fruition. It lays on a winding path heading northwest from the Outlook just before the Sirencester Sea air salts the senses. No one went there unless they were trying to forget something- or rid their thoughts of someone.

The orchard wasn't found on any map. It never had been. It appeared once a month, on the final night of the waning moon before giving into blackness, when the air grew thick and the stars seemed crammed against one another in the vast sky.

These beautiful creatures display an overwhelming prowess at circumnavigating unforgiving mountain ranges and the densest portions of the forests.